The Aryavarta Chronicles Kurukshetra: Book 3

by Krishna Udayasankar

  ‘You don’t mean…?’

  ‘I once told you that the Firstborn shall pay a thousand times over for what they have done to us, to our kind. I stand by that. Sukadeva Vasishta Varuni is but a means to an end. He thinks he can use us to his gain, but the truth remains that we have used him to ours. This war demonstrates beyond doubt the living might of the Firewrights, of our craft. And now that these foolish kings have spent what little they have hoarded of it, who will protect them from foreign invaders or even rebels from within? What means do they have to preserve their hierarchy? They need us, not the Firstborn. See how they drool and squabble over this Naga weapon, like a pack of rabid dogs. Imagine, Devala, we shall be their masters, feeding them scraps of meat to tame them to our will. We shall rule, and on our terms!’

  Devala’s weary air fell away and he stood up straighter. ‘What would you have me do now?’

  Sanjaya smiled. ‘When this war ends, and it soon will, the legacy of the Firstborn must end with it. You, my friend, shall make sure of that.’

  ‘Of course…but…what if…’

  ‘What if what?’

  ‘What if, Sanjaya, just what if Dharma’s forces win? What if Govinda Shauri wins?’

  Sanjaya laughed, the sound filling the tent. ‘My, my Devala,’ he said. ‘I never knew you for a jester. Dharma…and win?’ His voice turning to a menacing rasp, he added, ‘Nothing can save them now. Absolutely nothing.’

  32

  FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE THE BEGINNING OF THE WAR, IT occurred to Dharma Yudhisthir how few of his people were alive. Against the vastness of Kuru’s fields, the armies that remained standing were pitifully small. Horses and elephants were seen in ones and twos, as though let out to pasture. Foot soldiers crouched and clustered in small groups, driven to near-madness by sixteen days of war and the omnipresent stench of death. Each step taken by man or an animal on the field fell on squelching flesh, spraying offal and entrails in the air, and sending feasting carrion crows and engorged vultures squawking to find another meal a hair’s breadth away. Here and there, cries of agony from the living and on occasion from those not-as-yet dead cut through the clamour of battle – for, yes, the fighting went on.

  Dharma knew it was far from over, for those who were now left behind had everything to gain and nothing to lose, and he reminded himself of that over and over as he led what remained of his division to face Vasusena. This time, no one dissuaded him, nor did they converge to his protection, simply because they could not. Dhrstyadymn and Shikandin were desperately trying to hold their own against Kripa and Kritavarman respectively. Partha and Govinda tried to rally their men against Asvattama, but soon realized that there were few men left to rally. Battle was now a sentient monster with a mind of its own and countless arms. Strategy and formation had no value; weapons were thrown and cast without thought. Once in a while, some vassal prince or lord would use his few astra-weapons in the hope of buying glory with the blood of others. Eventually, though, he would stand defenceless and alone till some common soldier or cavalryman hacked him down like he was one of them. Against the vast spread of death and destruction, Kuru’s Fields seemed small, and smaller still for the one man who dominated the landscape, wreaking vengeance and wringing victory from the jaws of defeat: Vasusena.

  There was, Dharma mused, something familiar about Vasusena, something that he had not noticed all these years – not till this war. It may have been the way Vasusena had aged, or simply the way he fought, but it stirred a memory, one that Dharma could not identify but found pleasant, as though the man reminded him of a friend or a loved one. Dharma dismissed the notion, blaming it on the stress of the moment. After all, he mulled, what else but war could bring two men, especially enemies, closer? The self-indulgent musing cost him dearly. He did not hear the warning shout Yuyudhana sent his way, nor did his horseman react quickly enough. Rather than feeling the explosion, Dharma heard and saw it for he was instantly thrown into the air. He landed, fortunately or otherwise, on the pulpy remains of an elephant that had fallen four days ago, the animal’s skin rent open by scavengers to serve as a cushion of entrails and flesh. His charioteer was not so lucky – the man lost his life impaled against the broken axle of his own rig.

  Dharma stared, dazed, but the state gave way to a mix of gratitude and anger. He realized he was still holding on to his bow, and his quiver of arrows remained strapped on. He stood up, wading his way out of the elephant’s belly to stand on hard ground, dripping blood like a demon from Patala.

  The sight was enough to make any man quail, but Vasusena was not just any man. He smiled, amused at Dharma’s appearance, and raised his bow. It may have been the need to prove himself a warrior like any other on the field, or simply the resentment of having been protected and kept back by the others through the war, but suddenly Dharma felt no fear, only the thrill of battle. Letting out a hoarse roar, he whipped out an arrow from his quiver, set it to his bow, and sent it in Vasusena’s direction. Then, without waiting, he ran to where a long spear had pinned a horse and its rider to the earth and, pulling the weapon out, hurled it at his enemy.

  Vasusena countered Dharma’s arrow with his own, while Shalya expertly guided the horses and the rig to avoid the spear. Some of the soldiers in their division ran up to confront Dharma, but Vasusena ordered them back.

  Drawing three arrows from his quiver, Dharma set them all together to his bow. He knew he was hardly a marksman of Partha’s mettle, but that did not mean he was without any talent. A voice at the back of his mind reminded him that his opponent lacked neither skill nor a supply of Wright-weapons. Indeed, Vasusena countered Dharma’s arrows with a single shaft of his own, one that split into five pieces – a single arrow and four spiralling strips of metal that hurtled through the air, whip-like, to wrap themselves around two of Dharma’s shafts.

  The third of Dharma’s shafts brought Vasusena’s arrow down. One of the two spirals, however, found its mark, swiping the side of Dharma’s chest to land on the ground behind him, splitting his flesh open in a vicious tear. His scream carried over the ground, and he doubled over, falling to the ground.

  A sense of freedom from guilt and responsibility collided in his mind with the unbearable burden of failure, culminating in the hope that his mind-war too would end with Vasusena’s next arrow. But as the anticipated dart sped through the air, Dharma heard, first the sharp crack of metal on metal followed by Bhim’s leonine battle-cry. After that all went dark.

  ‘Get up, Agraja!’

  Dharma knew the voice and its tone well – he knew it well from the day his father Pandu had died. Old enough to shoulder responsibility and young enough to feel a child’s pain, Dharma had tried to find comfort in solitude and the promise of a life of simplicity. They – his father, his brothers and both his mothers Pritha and Madri – had been exiles, living a serene life in the forests, when his father’s death had changed things completely. That day, Dharma had felt the first pangs of fear. That day he had also found in one of his brothers the ability to be his constant strength.

  ‘Bhim…?’ Dharma opened his eyes to see his brother standing over him. The man before him appeared older, stronger than the youth who had pulled him out of solitude, given him the courage to face his destiny as a prince. ‘Bhim…’ he repeated.

  Relief flickered across Bhim’s face, and then he turned away, whirling his huge, heavy mace above his head as though it were just a wooden staff. The weapon made short work of the host of arrows that rained down on him and Dharma. Then, taking careful aim, Bhim swung hard, deflecting a spiked astra weapon from Vausena’s bow back towards the men who accompanied his enemy. Acting on his brief advantage, Bhim picked up Dharma’s bow and quiver and sent a number of arrows in Vasusena’s direction. He then swung the bow onto one shoulder and used his arms to hoist the incapacitated Dharma on to the other. Picking up his mace again, Bhim began to run.

  Slowly, Dharma became aware of his surroundings. Soldiers, Vasusena’s men by their insignia of a g
olden elephant-rope, lay dead around them. Their death, he knew, had been gory and instantaneous, for Bhim had smashed their skulls in with his mace. He could not comprehend the bravery and skill his brother had demonstrated in doing combat with so many men at once while fending off Vasusena’s arrows.

  ‘Bhim! Over here!’ Dharma strained to look up as he heard a voice. He saw Nakul driving his own rig towards them at great speed. Behind him were Partha and Govinda. Both vehicles came to a stop close to Bhim, who placed Dharma down on Nakul’s rig and clambered on himself.

  ‘Quick, get him back to camp. Partha and I will make sure you are not followed.’

  Dharma recognized the voice as Govinda’s and tried his best to meet the man’s gaze. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘Forgive me for all my earlier doubts, my harsh words. Forgive me for doubting everyone’s effort. Vasusena is…unstoppable. Short of a concerted attack by all of us, I can’t think of a way to defeat him…’

  Govinda simply said, ‘Fall back, Dharma. Remember: if we lose you, then all is lost.’

  ‘Perhaps all is lost, anyway,’ Nakul muttered, sullen, as he drove away across the field, Bhim and Dharma with him.

  ‘A concerted attack is not… it’s against the rules of war,’ Partha said to Govinda as they stood watching Nakul leave with Bhim and the wounded Dharma.

  ‘Have we really followed the rules that you begin to bother about them now? I can’t think of a single rule of war that has not been breached since the day the Grandsire fell. And I can’t remember a single rule of peacetime morality that was upheld when he was alive. I suppose he – and Dharma – would both argue that morality is a subtle thing…’

  Partha grunted with the effort of shooting three arrows in succession at a rogue elephant that was wandering about, injured and in agony. He watched with a grimace as the animal fell, and its suffering ended. ‘A battlefield may be the wrong place for such questions, but it gives rise to them like no other. I have to ask, Govinda: If we do not try to defend and preserve the past, if morality is mutable, what then do we fight for? What is worth preserving?’

  Govinda laughed, to the surprise of a passing enemy soldier. The standing man was soon left behind by their speeding rig but his distraction cost the soldier his life as one of Dharma’s soldiers attacked him from behind.

  ‘Rules of war!’ Govinda grunted, disdainful. ‘As to what is worth preserving, didn’t I explain that once already? Don’t make me go through that all over again, Partha. I can hardly remember what I said.’

  ‘I only know what you’ve taught me, my friend,’ Partha said, ‘and that is to be honest and true to myself – to do what I must, what I will.’

  ’That about sums it up, I think,’ Govinda said. ‘So what would you like to do today, Your Highness?’

  Partha slapped a friendly hand on Govinda’s back. ‘Let us face Vasusena as men and warriors should.’

  ‘If that is what you want, then there is a way to do this…’ Govinda said. His voice mellowed as he added, ‘Do you trust me, Partha?’

  Partha made to protest the question, but then decided against it. ‘Yes, Govinda,’ he simply stated.

  ‘Then here is how you defeat Vasusena: Stand firm. Just let your arrows loose without moving, without flinching. Aim your shafts at the same point, in quick succession. He’ll expect you to move, he’ll expect you to think he’ll move, and he will use that moment to release an astra weapon. Don’t move. Stand firm, just as he does.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Partha asked, beaming. He knew what it was that Govinda was not saying in words. The way to kill Vasusena was to die. Hopefully, Partha would live just long enough to finish the task first. ‘Find him, Govinda. And I will kill him.’

  Govinda responded with a shouted word of command, at which Balahak and Sugriv leapt forward, leading them into battle.

  They wasted no time on dealing with adversaries on the way; instead, Govinda cut through the now-rejuvenated enemy line. He did not have to go far: Spurred on by his victory against Dharma, Vasusena was set on decimating all that was left of Dharma’s force and bringing an end to the war.

  Partha immediately began to engage his opponent, sending a warning shaft into the air to begin with. Curiously, he felt no fear, just a wonderful, light-hearted tranquility. He had no doubt that there was only one way this encounter would end. In death, he would prove that he was Govinda’s most faithful friend. He sent a flurry of simple shafts, made of the same, supple metal as the Gandiva bow, cloaking Vasusena in a shower of metal. But even as he pulled the bowstring in repeated rhythm, he heard a single, loud twang from Vasusena’s bow.

  The sound told Partha that it was not a common arrow, but a different kind of dart. A Firewright dart, probably poisoned. He waited. It was hardly an instant, but felt much longer. One arrow. An archer of Vasusena’s calibre needed no more. His aim was unerring, and with Partha’s position fixed there was no chance of him missing. All Partha hoped was that his death would be quick and clean.

  Closing his eyes, Partha let his mind wander to pleasant memories. He watched himself laughing as he and Govinda splashed in the cool waters of the Yamuna and flirted with the pretty village maidens who came to let their calves drink from the river. He could feel the breeze on his face as the two of them raced up the hills near Dwaraka, shouting and yelling like children. He watched himself fall asleep as Govinda sat nearby, staring at the sea beyond. Something told him death would feel like falling asleep, once again.

  He heard Govinda’s voice as a whisper, very close by, ‘Those were good days, my friend.’ Then he heard the soft thud of arrow piercing flesh. But Partha felt nothing.

  It all happened very quickly after that.

  There was a burst of noise: cries, cheers and howls all mixed together in brutal cacophony. Partha opened his eyes. ‘No!’ he screamed, frantic, as Govinda fell back under the impact of Vasusena’s arrow, into his arms. Gently, he lowered Govinda onto the floor of the rig, resting the injured man’s head on his knee. ‘Yabha! How could you do this! I was ready to die; why did you have to be such a hero! You fool!’

  Vasusena’s arrow, a spiralling snake-like dart, was wedged deep in Govinda’s chest. Already, the flesh around the wound had begun to turn black from the poison in the arrow. For a short while, Partha stared, open-mouthed, at the fallen Govinda. Then, letting his friend’s listless body drop to the floor of the rig, he stood up. Veins throbbing, head thrown back, Partha let out a guttural cry that brought everyone around them to a halt. With a fury unseen in him before, he picked up his bow. His eyes were red yet cold as he reached into the depths of the rig for a bundle he knew all along Govinda had kept there and tugged it towards him.

  ‘Wait…’ Govinda’s voice sounded distant. But Partha was not listening. His heart filled with unbearable hatred, he undid the bundle to reveal the bright gleam of Wright-metal.

  Vasusena watched Partha’s arrow as it curved in, trying to identify it by its shape. By the time he did, and launched shafts of his own to counter it, it was too late.

  ‘Move!’ He pushed Shalya aside, and the arrow sank into the wood of the rig, between them. Unfortunately, he realized, it had done its damage. Shalya stared at him, wide-eyed, his expression a mixture of incomprehension and fear. Vasusena understood at once. He quickly went down on his knee next to Shalya and, tearing a strip of cloth from the edge of his robe, tied it tight around the older man’s upper arm, cutting off the blood flow to and from the limb that Partha’s arrow had grazed. He waited, praying he had been swift enough.

  Moments passed, and so did the glaze in Shalya’s eyes. He came to his senses with a great gasp of air as though he had forgotten to breathe in the interim. ‘Was that…?’ he asked Vasusena, taking in the wound on his arm as well the Wright-arrow still lodged in the wood of their rig.

  ‘Yes. The Bramha-weapon.’

  At that, Shalya appeared more horrified than he had been under the toxin’s influence. ‘Partha? Partha let loose the Bramha-astra?’

&nbs
p; ‘Why does that astonish you?’

  Shalya said, ‘You’re right, it ought not to.’ Disappointment clouded his eyes, and he grit his teeth in anger as he said, ‘As for Partha – I give you my word now, Vasusena. If you fall in combat today, I will carry on in your stead. I will fight till either he and his cowherd friend are dead, or else I am.’

  ‘And here I thought,’ Vasusena said, ‘that you’d dissuade me all you could, Your Highness. I was wrong. You are a man of honour.’

  ‘And I have no intentions of being a dead man of honour!’ Shalya declared with sudden vehemence, as he took his position at the reins and urged the horses into action again.

  ‘Your Highness…’ Vasusena began, sounding concerned.

  Shalya would have none of it. ‘There,’ he said, gesturing to their enemy. ‘Partha is at a disadvantage. Govinda is down. This is your chance, Vasusena, finish him off!’

  Snarling with glee at the prospect, Vasusena picked up a Wright-metal arrow of his own. ‘Let’s see,’ he said, ‘how Partha likes the feel of the Bramha-weapon himself.’

  33

  SYODDHAN BRISTLED AT THE FEEL OF BLOOD- AND SWEAT-STAINED fingers against his skin. Few had the courage to assume excessive familiarity with him, and to grab his wrist on impulse, as one might grab the wrist of an errant child or a bashful beloved, was more than excessive or familiar; it was downright offensive. Even Gandhari would not presume to so behave with her son. His mouth forming the beginning of a snarl, Syoddhan turned to the transgressor, but something in the man’s eyes tugged at his heart. He had never seen anxiety or fear in Asvattama Bharadvaja.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, while Dussasan held his breath at the scene, waiting for Asvattama to receive the expected reprimand from his brother.

  ‘I’ve never said this before, and I shall not say it again,’ Asvattama began, his fingers still wrapped in a tight grip around Syoddhan’s arm. ‘Make peace with Dharma, Syoddhan. Now. Stop this war.’